As an only child, I had little company growing up. With both parents working, my grandma became my best friend by default. When my therapist asked me to describe my happy place – the place I feel most myself, calm and safe, I think of my grandma’s house instantly – the sour-tangy-chilli whiff of kimchi and an episode of the latest Korean drama that’s always blaring from the TV.
Two years ago, I started seeing a therapist. The idea of therapy didn’t enter my mind in the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, nor did I consider it when Dad left my life for good. Rather, it was a trivial argument with my then boyfriend that motivated me to seek help.
While I don’t remember what the argument was about, what I couldn’t forget was the meanness with which I spoke. It sounded eerily similar to the way my dad spoke to my mum and I didn’t like it.
Several phone calls later, I made an appointment to see a psychologist nearby. Initially, I wanted a therapist with an Asian background so they could understand specific cultural nuance, family dynamics, intergenerational trauma and concepts like individualism versus collectivism. But desperate COVID times called for desperate measures, and I went with the first available therapist. Happily, they were familiar with – and even shed light on – some of the terms above.
My therapist asked me to describe my happy place – I think of my grandma’s house instantly
My first session was swift and discreet. Fearing Mum’s potential reaction of seeing therapy as a waste of money and airing our dirty laundry, I told her I was ducking out to the doctors for a check-up (which wasn’t entirely false).
Afterwards, I wrote some notes on my phone to help retain what had happened (I was paying a fair amount for an hour, after all). ‘Freedom’, the note was titled.
“Had my first psychologist appointment and I walked out thinking why didn’t I do this sooner? I’m just glad to have started now. I explained my situation and I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to talk about. I thought maybe I would talk about work or [my ex-boyfriend] but most of it was actually my dad. The penny-drop moment was when she asked me why I’m so critical of myself and whose voice my inner critic was. I said it was mine and she said no, it has to be one of your parents because no child starts with those thoughts so you must’ve adopted it from someone – turns out it’s from my dad.”
I’ve since learned to let my thoughts pass, name my emotions to understand and subdue them; and distinguish between my thinking and observing selves, among other things. Now, you (and my mum) may think, “Surely a self-help book or podcast could have taught you all this?” Well, before therapy, I’d thought so too. I had actually dabbled in mindfulness and meditation for a time, and have always had an interest in psychology. But speaking to a therapist regularly was what helped make sense of it all.
More importantly, I learnt to accept there is no single or linear way to unlearn 30 years of what I thought I knew about myself. Alongside therapy, I now read, journal, exercise and collect other tools to add to my arsenal, including Facebook pages like ‘Subtle Asian Mental Health,’ an offshoot of ‘Subtle Asian Traits.’
I appreciated the advice and anecdotes I imagine a sibling would provide
“A lot of us express our trauma through memes,” one member who didn’t want to be named, told me. “It’s honestly so refreshing and comforting just to know there’s a group out there who has endured the same tiger parenting, racism and identity crises as you.”
There, more than 60,000 members share their dilemmas as well as resources, doubling as each other’s unofficial therapists. As an only child, I appreciated the advice and anecdotes I imagine a sibling would provide.
Today, apart from my grandma’s place, I have another safe space I can be myself. There is no warm meal or bosom-burying hug waiting for me there. Instead, Thank You cards and therapy diagrams adorn the office wall – and the door is always open.
